


g o o s e !

by papersurrous



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Childhood Friends, Cross-Posted on Quotev, F/M, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Mild Horror, Sexual Humor, Sleepovers, Swearing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-17
Updated: 2020-08-17
Packaged: 2021-03-06 06:55:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,922
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25949212
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/papersurrous/pseuds/papersurrous
Summary: Not that you'd chase a loser like them in the first place ... but they'll choose you anyway, in every game, and in every lifetime.—(Losers Club/Reader one shots.)
Relationships: Eddie Kaspbrak/Reader, Richie Tozier & Reader, Richie Tozier/Reader
Kudos: 12





	1. eddie kaspbrak - slumber party

**Author's Note:**

> cross-posted from my quotev account, [ClearUmbrellas](https://www.quotev.com/ClearUmbrellas)!

Eddie tends to doubt his decisions as soon as he makes them.

The front door swings open before he can even jam his elbow against the doorbell, revealing the grinning mug of one Richie Tozier on the other side. Playing cards stick up behind the bows of his glasses. “Eds, the man of the hour!” Richie exclaims, yanking Eddie through the doorway so quickly his head knocks back.

Yep, he’s really doubting himself now.

The weight of his sleeping bag and staying-over-bag nearly topple him over. “Don’t call me that!” Eddie seethes, regaining his balance and swatting Richie’s sweaty, grabby hands away from his face. “And don’t touch me!”

The other boy manages to pinch his cheek right as a voice floats out of the kitchen. Mrs. Tozier’s head pops into view before Eddie can give Richie a good whaling. “Richie, behave,” she warns; the guilty party only tucks his hands behind his head, eyes wide and innocent. Mrs. Tozier then turns to Eddie and changes her tune. “Hello, Eddie,” she chirps warmly, smiling at him. “Everyone’s in the living room. Pizza will be here soon.”

Pizza. The thought almost makes his mouth water. “Okay,” he says, a little timidly, and Mrs. Tozier gives him another smile that brings an embarrassed flush to his face.

An elbow digs into Eddie’s side. “Don’t just stand there, gov’na, move along, move along!” British Policeman Richie escorts him politely past the kitchen, where Mr. and Mrs. Tozier are drinking tea, and into the living room, away from their prying eyes. The familiar sound of chatter becomes clearer. Right as the rest of the Losers’ Club comes into view, Richie clears his throat and lets loose the voice of a Kentucky fisherman that stabs him in the ear. “We goddim, boys!” he announces, pulling up the back of Eddie’s collar like it’s a fishing line. “Ain’t nothin’ but a little guppy but it’s good n’ cute enough, I reckon.”

Even though his irritation at being manhandled quickly collapses under the weight of friendly welcomes, Eddie still whacks Richie’s knees with his fifty-pound staying-over-bag. (It’s the principle of the thing.)

“Your m-mo-mom g-gave the g-ger-reen light,” Bill says approvingly.

“Yeah.” Eddie nods. He plunks his stuff over in the corner with everyone else’s things and then heads over to the middle of the room, where the game is about to resume. Uno. His gaze drags over each Loser in turn – Stan Richie Mike Bill Beverly Ben –

You.

His heart shoots up into his throat and flops there like a dying fish.

You’re already in your pajamas despite it only being six o’clock, a light blue T-shirt over cotton shorts that expose your thighs – your thighs! – as you sit cross-legged next to Ben. A twinkle shines in your eye when he meets your gaze. The spot next to you is vacant.

_Oh god –_

“Uno.” Beverly tosses a Red 7 onto the pile.

A cacophony of mumbled swears makes its way around the circle. Beverly’s grin doesn’t waver, and her hand twitches toward her mouth as if she’s about to take a self-rewarding drag from a cigarette. Eddie can see her last card. It’s a Wild Card. Shit, she’s good.

(He glances at Ben’s hand next to hers. There’s a Draw Four tucked in the back.)

A calloused, somewhat sweaty hand tugs his wrist. Eddie barely contains a squeak as you look up at him.

“Come sit,” you say.

Quickly, he plops down next to you. The lump in his throat sticks when he feels your arm brush against his.

“Don’t cheat off of him,” Stanley pipes up from across the two of you. His cards are held close, almost plastered to his chest. “I know you saw Beverly and Ben’s cards, Eddie.”

Eddie screws up his face as much as he can. “I’m not gonna help [Y/n] cheat.”

“Drat,” is all you mutter, nudging him with your toe. His cheeks begin to burn.

Stanley just ticks an eyebrow and places a Blue 7 down.

As expected, Beverly wins, and Ben seems perfectly fine throwing the game for the redheaded girl. But Eddie doesn’t give him shit over it, because he gets it. He gets it and it _sucks_ that he does.

“W-We should s-s-start another game after d-d-dinner.” Bill looks at everyone. “Since the p-p-pizza sh-should b-be almost here.”

Like a prophecy fulfilled, the doorbell rings and Mrs. Tozier calls out from the kitchen. “Kids! Pizza’s here.”

Seven pairs of eyes fix onto Bill’s face with awe. “Hot diggity dog, Big Bill, you’re on fire,” Richie exclaims, scrambling to his feet. “Get a crystal ball and some curtains, why don’t’cha?”

Dinner is cheese pizza and breadsticks from Pizza Hut, along with potato chips and juice. It’s everything Eddie’s been craving.

They congregate around the Toziers’ dinner table, with some, including Eddie, grabbing a folding chair and scooting in as close as possible. With a few cursory glances, he sees that you’re sitting across from him, right next to Beverly.

A voice in his head tells him that his dignity’s on the line.

He hopes he doesn’t choke on the cheese. To his right, Ben sinks his teeth into a slice and tugs, and Eddie watches the gooey mozzarella pull away from the crust and tomato sauce in one thick ribbon. Imagine _that_ getting stuck in his throat, cripes. Melted cheese, the stretchy kind like that, could get lodged in his trachea and if it’s too far down he might not be able to reach in and pull it out and it’d choke him. Death by cheese. Sweet Jesus. He hopes Mrs. Tozier knows the Heimlich maneuver.

“A-Aren’t you gonna eat, Ed-Eddie?” Bill asks him curiously through a mouthful of garlic breadstick, making him jump. Thankfully, nobody else is paying attention.

Eddie nods and takes a nibble of his pizza, making sure to sever the layer of cheese with his teeth. He takes a quick peek over at you, but you seem preoccupied with Mike’s farm story. Good.

… But also not.

He spends the first couple of bites painfully self-aware. Soon enough, though, Richie opens his trap with some dig at Mike’s tale and the table blows up, and the chaos quickly settles him to the point of forgetting all about how he’s eating. The food on his plate disappears piece by piece. The pizza is great, the chocolate ice cream even more so, and nothing gets stuck going down.

A chorus of thank-you’s pelt Mrs. Tozier when Eddie and the others bring their cleared plates to the garbage.

“Thank you, good madam, thank you,” Richie booms while everyone trails back into the living room to continue the game, walking backwards as he bows down to his mother. Mrs. Tozier, glued to a magazine, just nods and hums. Richie spins around once his heels cross onto the carpet. “Ready for a rematch, Bev?”

—

They decide on a game of hide-and-seek after four rounds of Uno.

It seems like a great idea, at first. Richie’s house is a good size and has plenty of nooks and crannies. But then Eddie makes the mistake of looking outside, and he sees the darkening, smoky blue sky and the last bit of orange light peeking out from behind the trees in Richie’s backyard – orange, like the pom-poms on a clown suit. And he can feel his pulse stutter a little in his chest. A familiar sense of dread, cold and wanting, tickles the back of his mind;

 _it isn’t safe to be alone, Eddie bear_ –

 _No!_ He clenches his teeth. _It_ ’s been gone for three days already, get over it. Besides, he’s not really alone.

With that in mind, Eddie doesn’t protest, and the game plan is set: Bill will be the seeker, and except for Richie’s parents’ room, the whole house is game. Everyone else has sixty seconds to hide.

Bill faces the corner in the living room. “One, two, three …”

Eddie rushes down the hallway alongside Stan, heartbeat already a loud _thump-thump-thump_ sound in his head. Their feet make muted thuds against the thick carpet. Stan darts into the guest bathroom – that’s where they part ways. _No way is he hiding in_ there. The lack of light nearly makes him ram his hip against a table corner.

Where to go, where to go …

“The guest room!” he whispers to himself, flying right. The bed has a skirt around it. He could grab one of the spare blankets in the closet and wrap himself in it for camouflage.

There’s not much time left. Eddie rushes into the small room at the end of the hall, yanking open the closet and grabbing the first itchy brown blanket he sees. Wrapping it snugly around him, he dives to the ground and wriggles underneath the bed. It’s a little harder with the cast, but not by much. He turns himself to lie parallel to the head of the bed, scrunched as small as he can against the wall. _There are_ some _benefits to being scrawny_ , he supposes.

“R-Re-Ready or not, here I c-come!”

Bill is methodical and thorough in his searching. He always checks the area around him first, then searches each section one-by-one until he reaches a dead end. Eddie’s got a good amount of time before he reaches the guest room.

… Geez. This blanket’s itchy as all hell.

He keeps his breathing light and his movements slow and silent as he tries to get more comfortable. Hopefully, he won’t need to use his aspirator. It’s so dark and stuffy.

How long should he wait until moving somewhere else? Should he wait until Bill checks the room and risk getting caught?

A muffled shout puts him back into high alert. He shrinks further beneath the bed and pokes a finger out to lift the bed skirt a little. Through the small opening in the blanket and the skirt, he can see the bottom of the closet and part of the doorway. He hears some clothes shuffling – it’s coming from the half-open closet. Its door slides further open. One bare foot peeks out. Then another foot. The door closes. He licks his lips with a dry tongue.

The feet point toward the door for second before changing direction and speeding over to the bed.

The skirt suddenly lifts, and your face drops into view as you push yourself backwards underneath the bed.

“[Y/n]?” he hisses, and you shush him. “Why are you –"

You slap a hand over his mouth. Your breathing is labored, so you clamp your other hand over your mouth and nose to muffle it. “Quiet,” you whisper.

He obeys and swallows his words, ears straining for the sound of footsteps. Nothing. Maybe both of you are still safe.

“Sorry,” you eventually breathe – you’re speaking so quietly that your words are almost unintelligible. “I thought I saw something in the closet.”

“Oh, shit,” he whispers back. Turning his head the best he can to face you (something much easier to do in the dark, even if all he can see are shadows where your face is supposed to be), he swallows at the close proximity. “Was it …?”

“No. Well, I know it _couldn’t_ have been It. But still,” you murmur thickly, “I figured I better buddy up.” A pause. “Don’t worry, he’ll find me first. I’m risking your spot, anyway.”

“It’s not your fault,” Eddie says, mouth pressed against his forearm. “I’ll give up my spot, too. I don’t wanna be the seeker.”

You breathe in. “Me, neither.”

Still, you tuck in closer to Eddie. Your shoulder presses against his through the scratchy blanket, sending a shock of delight through the pit of his stomach. He can practically smell your shampoo and the plain cleanness of your T-shirt. Is this what love feels like? His muscles are practically jelly.

Someone enters the room.

“… thrusts his fists ag-gains –” The closet door squeaks as Bill slides it open. Hangers click against each other. “He thrusts … his fists … against the p-p-p –”

A swear makes its way underneath the bed skirt as Bill finishes rifling through the closet. He then shuffles toward the foot of the bed, and Eddie hears him lift the giant stuffed bear next to the dresser. Bill hums.

Finally, the bed skirt is pulled up.

“F-Fuh-Found you, [Y/n],” Bill announces, and you blow a raspberry, squirming out into the open and leaving Eddie behind.

“How many left?” you ask.

“Just R-Richie and E-E-Eddie.”

“Oh, I bet I know where Richie is.”

Eddie scrambles out, blanket and all. “I’ll help you guys find him,” he volunteers upon seeing Bill’s surprised face. He _really_ doesn’t want to be the seeker. By himself, anyway.

“O-Okay,” Bill says, regarding Eddie carefully. Then he turns and leads the two of you out and down the hallway.

Richie is found two minutes later in his clothes hamper.

“The only reason you’re the last one is because nobody wanted to touch your grody underwear,” Eddie tells him, staying far away as the other boy rises from the soiled, germ-infested clothes.

“Your mom doesn’t complain,” Richie replies demurely.

The next round goes pretty quickly with Richie as the seeker, which makes sense because he knows the house best. Mike seeks next, followed by Beverly, and then they decide to switch it up with four rounds of Sardines. Eddie’s not so antsy about either role for Sardines, since all he has to do is stick by someone the whole time or hide like before.

Once everyone has their turn seeking and hiding, a movie seems like the perfect follow-up. Ben suggests that they build a fort in the living room in front of the TV.

“That’d be totally cool, Ben,” Beverly exclaims, and Ben’s face looks like one round, rosy apple for ten minutes.

Stan and Bill pilfer some chairs from the kitchen while Richie fetches two blankets. Eddie helps grab some books (he snags the brick-heavy dentistry textbooks from the bookshelf upon Richie’s instruction) to weigh the roof-blanket down and unwrinkles the thicker blanket laid on the floor. Everyone pitches in to arrange the couch cushions and pillows on the floor. They pin one edge of the leftover blanket between the wall and the couch, and then drape the other end over the chairs a few feet away on both sides. “If we could put up a clothesline across the room, it’d be even better,” Ben remarks, but Richie just shakes his head and says that his mom wouldn’t want them hammering holes in the walls. Nevertheless, their labor results in a large, comfortable fortress that takes up most of the living room.

Richie’s parents have to shimmy between the TV and the front of the fort to get to their room. “I hope you kids clean this up before I trip on the way to my morning coffee tomorrow,” Mr. Tozier quips, scratching the back of his head.

“W-W-We will,” Bill assures him, the VHS cassettes lined up in front of him.

You crawl out through the side after fluffing up the lumpy sea of pillows on the floor. “I’ll pop some popcorn,” you announce, smoothing out your shirt. “What movie are we watching?”

“W-Well, we need t-t-to vote. Who w-wa-wants _E.T-T._?” No dice, so Bill puts it aside. “ _Gremlins_.” Three hands, including yours. “ _T-Top Gun_.” Two hands. “ _Ghostb-b-busters_?”

Eddie raises his hand, along with Mike and Richie.

Bill stacks up the tapes until just _Gremlins_ and _Ghostbusters_ are left. “It’s a t-t-tie, so does anyone wa-want to change th-their v-v-vote?”

“You know what? I could watch _Ghostbusters_. Count me in.” You raise a hand, rocking back and forth on your feet. You’re always moving, just like Richie, and it’s in those fidgets that Eddie can see how the two of you are related.

In any case, the solidarity brings warmth to the tips of his ears, and he looks down briefly at his feet before smiling at you. You smile back.

“I’ll keep my vote if Eddie stops undressing my cousin with his eyes,” Richie says lowly and innocently. He pretends to retch.

The warmth immediately burns like red-hot coals. “That’s so not – I’m _not undr –_ ” he drops his shriek into a hiss, anxiously glancing in the direction of Mr. and Mrs. Tozier’s room – “ _shut up, assface_!”

“Beep-beep, Richie.” You make a face and smack Richie upside the head, trotting to the kitchen.

As Richie brushes off a few more beeps, Eddie concentrates on the sound of popcorn kernels exploding as he fights his blush down, grabbing his pillow and squeezing it.

Bill pops the cassette into the VCR. “I-Is the puh-puh-popcorn almost r-ready?” he calls out.

“Not yet,” you answer. “I’m making a bunch. Maybe y’all should change into your pajamas while they’re popping.”

So they do. Eddie slips into the guest bathroom after Stan comes out in his blue flannel pajamas, clothes folded neatly in his arms, and exits just as quickly in his own nightclothes.

“Aw, wook at wittle Eds in his PJs,” Richie croons when Eddie clambers back to his spot in the fort.

“Stop calling me that.”

“Those look comfy, Eddie,” Beverly comments. She’s lying in a dark green nightgown, the kind with a frilly thing around the neckline. It makes her look girly.

“Thanks. So does yours.” Immediately he adds, “I-If I were a girl, I mean.”

Beverly grins.

“Popcorn’s ready.” Your voice drifts in like an angel’s, along with the delicious aroma of hot butter. Eddie looks up to see you holding what can only be described as a giant vat of popcorn and a stack of paper bowls.

Richie woofs. “Christ on a cracker, [Y/n], no wonder you took forever.”

“As if all of this won’t be eaten before the movie ends,” you retort, sitting down next to Eddie. He suppresses a blush as you hold out a bowl to him. “Popcorn, Eddie?”

“Oh. Yeah, thanks.”

He dips the bowl into the popcorn vat and scoops out a pile for himself. You pass the popcorn and bowls along as Bill starts the movie, and soon Eddie’s sucked into the excitement of the supernatural in New York City.

—

They attempt to watch _Gremlins_ afterwards, but it triggers a kind of primal shiver through the group that forces Bill to turn it off halfway through.

“W-We oughta b-b-be qu-quiet now, anyhow,” the boy reasons, putting the tape back into its cardboard sleeve. “Y-Your parents p-p-probably wa-want to sleep.”

“Yeah,” Richie agrees with a sigh. He flops onto his back – or at least tries to, but Mike’s knee gets in the way.

Obviously, the fort is a little too cramped for six people to sleep comfortably, so they dismantle the fort as quietly as possible. Stan gets the couch after winning rock-paper-scissors, and the rest of the boys unpack and arrange their bedding. Eddie rolls out his sleeping bag. It’s brand new; he’s never had a sleeping bag until this week because he’s never needed one – camping is too dangerous, his mom tells him, too many mosquitos with malaria, bears, forest fires. Truth be told, he doesn’t much like the feel of polyester on his skin. But he can tolerate it.

“You can take my bed,” you tell Beverly, taking everyone’s empty popcorn bowls (the popcorn is, in fact, all gone except for the leftover kernels). “There’s an extra sleeping bag in the garage I can use.”

“I brought a sleeping bag. It’s fine,” Beverly insists.

“Then I’ll sleep on the ground, too.”

“I’ll sleep in the bed,” Richie interrupts in a high-pitched voice. “We can look at _Bop_ and have a girls’ night.”

You and Beverly exchange a look. “Nope,” you say, parading to the kitchen to dispose of the popcorn bowls. After a few minutes, you reappear with a bundled-up sleeping bag and parade the other girl toward the guest bedroom.

Soon, all the lights are turned off.

“What do you think girls do during sleepovers?” Eddie asks in the darkness, squirming to get comfortable in his own sleeping bag. It’s sort of cramped, so he leaves the zipper halfway down to keep his casted arm out.

“Gossip,” Stan says wisely.

“Bev and [Y/n] don’t seem like they’d do that.” Ben’s voice is thin and muffled. Eddie secretly agrees with him.

“Even if they’re Losers, they’re still girls.”

“I bet they’re talking about _boys_ ,” Richie says. “I bet they’re talking about _us_. Like who’s the ugliest.”

Stan snorts.

“Sh-Shut up, R-R-Richie,” Bill mutters.

Eddie scrunches his face as silence falls once more, Richie’s words running through his mind over and over like a stuttered recording. He looks up at the grayed ceiling. What if you _are_ talking about them? What if you’re talking about _him_? He can’t help but imagine it – you and Beverly lying side by side in your sleeping bags, the lamp on, giggling into a _Bop_ magazine as you talk about the face he makes when he’s about to have an asthma attack. Slowly, your face morphs into Greta Keene’s. He winces and touches his cast. You wouldn’t talk about any of them like that. You’re nice. Really nice.

He thinks back to the first time he met you. Richie had wanted to play at the arcade, and although Eddie didn’t like the place too much (he had seen a kid sneeze all over the _Street Fighter_ machine once), he looked forward to meeting up with his friends.

 _“Oh, yeah, and I’m bringing my cousin,”_ Richie had informed him over the telephone.

 _“Okay,”_ Eddie had said. That was fine.

What Richie had neglected to tell him was that his cousin was a girl. Eddie remembers staring, eyes wide as saucers as you entered the arcade with Richie, the sunlight glowing off your cheeks, your slouch socks white and pristine. He had pulled off a pathetic greeting worthy of Richie’s mocking, but you didn’t seem to mind. You even asked if he was okay when he took out his aspirator. You smiled at him a lot that day.

Beverly had welcomed you with open arms. The rest liked you well enough to make you an honorary Loser, but Eddie likes to think that you like him the best – a hope that’s hidden in the farthest corner of his mind.

Face hot, Eddie lies there for what seems like forever before he finally drifts into unconsciousness.

When he wakes up, it’s still dark. Someone’s snoring. Richie’s mumbling nonsense in his sleep. His throat feels parched, so Eddie slowly extracts himself from his sleeping bag and tiptoes to the kitchen. The clock on the stove reads **1:13** in bright green numbers, then blinks to **1:14**. Getting a mug from the cupboard and turning the sink on to a trickle, he stifles a yawn.

“Eddie?”

He jumps. Cold water splashes over his hands. “ _Shit!_ ” He turns and sees your shadowy figure next to the bar counter. The gray moonlight makes you look like a ghost. “[Y/n]?”

“Sorry,” you whisper. “I was gonna get some water.”

“Me too.” He looks down at the slowly filling mug, fixes the trickle of water into a heavier stream, and then holds the cup out towards you. “Here, take it.”

“Oh. Thanks.” Your lips curve into a smile, fingers overlapping his own as you gingerly take his offering. He has to remember to let go.

While you lift the mug to your face, he pads over to the cupboard for the second time, going on the tips of his toes to get a cup for himself. Back at the sink, the tap turns on; he fills the glass halfway.

The cool water soothes his throat, and he peeks at you over the plastic cup. Your eyes meet.

“So what woke _you_ up?” you ask.

Eddie shrugs weakly. “I dunno. Thirsty, I guess. What about you?”

“Too hot.”

You take another swig from your glass. He watches, mesmerized.

“What … What did you and Beverly talk about in your room?” he finds himself inquiring, voice ridiculously high and hushed.

This time, it’s your turn to shrug. You lean next to him against the kitchen counter, arm touching his. “What she’ll do when she goes to Portland. Then we read a magazine.”

“Oh.” The mention of Portland sends a strange ache in his chest. Beverly is moving next week. He’ll miss her.

Then he remembers that you’re leaving next week too. Of course – you don’t live in Derry; you never have and probably never will. School is starting in two weeks and everything will be normal again. But even though he’s glad the horrific shitfest that occurred this summer is done, he isn’t really looking forward to “normal.”

He’ll miss you, too.

“Well,” you cut through his train of thought, and he snaps his head back to face you. “We also talked about some … other things.”

The way your voice lowers, hesitant, makes his heart begin to race. “L-Like what?” he ventures to ask.

“Like … _boys_.” Your teeth clink against the ceramic mug. “… You.”

_Me? ME?_

He suffocates his cup in his grip. “Wh-What do you mean?”

“Do you like me, Eddie?”

_Do you like me, Eddie?_

_Are you kidding me? I like you so fucking much it’s not even funny!_

“Yeah,” Eddie mumbles, mouth as dry as the Sahara Desert.

You sigh.

Is that a good sigh, or a bad one?

He stares at you, unable to blink, his heart in its familiar place in his throat.

Eventually – it’s actually not even ten seconds after his answer, but it sure _feels_ like _eventually_ – you speak again. “I like you, too.”

“Holy shit,” he whispers, not knowing what else to say.

You exhale a funny little laugh through your nose. His cheeks tingle.

“I know I’m leaving next week, but,” you give him a soft but urgent look, “do you wanna maybe write each other? Or call?”

“I’d rather write,” Eddie responds, thinking about his mom.

“Okay, I’ll write every week.”

“Okay.”

“I’m gonna miss you,” you say. “I’ll miss all of you, but I’ll miss you the most.”

He grins. “Not Richie?”

“Y’know what I mean. And Richie’s a turd. Everyone loves him, though.”

“Yeah, I know.” He stares into the black depths of his cup, realizing something. “I don’t know your address.”

“I’ll give it to you tomorrow. Or –” you look at the stove clock, “later, I guess.”

He nods silently. The water is drained from your cups. You both put them in the sink to deal with later, and then you turn to face him one last time, chewing on your lip.

“Um. Well, goodnight, Eddie.”

“Goodnight.”

After pondering for a moment, you press forward and plant a kiss on his cheek. It’s quick and light. Then you hurry off to your room, melting into the darkness once again.

Eddie stands there, rooted to the spot where the two of you had parted. He reaches up, mechanically, to touch the burning imprint your lips have left.

 _Holy fuck,_ he thinks blearily. _She_ kissed _me_.

The trek back to the living room is surreal and floaty. He slips into the polyester sleeve of his sleeping bag, lies on his back, and stares up at nothing for a few minutes.

When Eddie falls asleep at last, he dreams of you.


	2. richie tozier - telly

“Do I _have_ to go?”

His mom looks at him in a way that tells him _I will drag you there if need be_ , and outwardly she says, “Yes, Richie. It’s a family outing.”

Richie groans, planting his face onto the kitchen table. His mom only used the words “family outing” when he wanted to hang out with his friends instead. Guilt-tripping at the highest level. But he doesn’t even get the luxury to mope some more before she speaks again.

“Be a dear and get the Saran wrap.”

He doesn’t _want_ to be a dear right now. Nevertheless, Richie sullenly treks to the pantry and fetches the box, placing it on the counter next to the salad bowl. The unforgiving _screeet_ of plastic echoes though the kitchen as Mrs. Tozier pulls out a section and cuts it off.

“Can I at least bring a comic book?” he negotiates.

“You don’t need to bring a comic book. You can talk to [Y/n] while you’re there.”

Her words hold the weight of a life sentence. Richie slumps back down onto the table, defeated. Easier said than done! Shit, you’ve probably spoken six words to him the entire three years you’ve lived in Derry – two for each Thanksgiving dinner. He’s concluded that you have only two words set aside for the Richie Foundation: _hi_ and _bye_.

Maybe he can practice his Voices in front of you like last time. Or watch you read a book. Blugh.

Eventually, his mom finishes packing everything up and assigns him the salad bowl to hang on to. His dad helps him fix his tie (or more accurately, ties it for him, which takes ten minutes because neither of them is very good at it). Richie pulls on his coat and jumps into his shoes, the salad jumping along with him underneath the plastic wrap.

“Ready, son?” his dad asks.

“Aye, aye, cap’n, ready to brave the unknown.”

“Richie.” This time, it’s his mom.

He looks over at her. “Yes, good madam?”

“Try to talk to [Y/n] when we get there,” she tells him, eyes pleading. “You know she doesn’t have many friends.”

Richie sighs and nods. “Aye, aye, captain.”

—

As mentioned before, this Thanksgiving “family” tradition all started when you moved into the nice gray house next to Richie’s three years ago. Mrs. Tozier, always one to welcome newcomers as they were few and far between in the neighborhood, had brought over a casserole, a few words of goodwill, and an invite to dinner that weekend. Your mom was very touched. And although Richie hadn’t previously believed that adults had best friends and chummed around, he saw it happen before his very eyes with his parents and yours. Turns out, the four of them had a lot in common – such as Scrabble, wine, and having an only child.

Richie was, by no means, a loner back then. At the age of ten, he already had Bill, Eddie, and Stan, and his mouth gained him a lot of familiarity amongst his classmates (though not all of it was good). Suffice to say, you needed him a lot more than he needed you. He was your bridge to the great social circle of Derry, and both your parents and his seized the opportunity the best they could.

He himself was pretty confident on winning you over at first. However, a problem immediately arose in that trying to befriend you was like talking to a brick wall.

“[Y/n],” he greets you once he and his parents step inside the warmth of your home, making a point to smile. “What’s crackin’?”

“Hi.” You look ten seconds away from bolting, voice hushed and eyes plastered to the empty space next to his shoulder. Richie’s smile feels cemented onto his face as you glance over at his mom. “I can take your coats.”

He puffs his cheeks and exhales, sloughing off his coat. You take it as well as his parents’ things. “Thanks,” he calls after you as you eagerly scamper off.

Richie doesn’t _not_ like you. By all accounts, you’re probably a nice person and could be friendly enough, if only you would hold a conversation. But it’s been three years and the ice _still_ hasn’t broken.

He’s basically all out of options at this point. And when Richie “Trashmouth” Tozier is out of options, he’s got to put up the mic and find a new audience.

After a bit of loafing around in the living room, listening to his dad talk about dentist stuff with yours, dinner is set up and ready. As per usual, he’s seated across from you for maximum awkwardness, something that he combats by filling his plate.

Seeing the turkey, all golden and carved up, reminds Richie that the _eating_ part of the evening is actually pretty bombdiggity. Stuffing, mashed potatoes and gravy, pumpkin pie – your mom’s a great cook, and he always leaves feeling stuffed to the brim with food. And your parents are probably some of the most talkative people he’s ever met.

Other than himself, of course.

“Oh!” your father suddenly interrupts himself in the middle of a spiel, eyes popping wide open. His fist hits the table and Richie nearly chokes on his juice. “[Y/n], get the ruby port in the cellar. You know where it is. Quick!”

You swallow the last of your soup, hurriedly wiping your mouth with a napkin before getting up from your seat. Richie watches you trek past your parents and disappear into the kitchen, silent and quick as a cat.

“She’s as quiet as Richie is loud,” his dad comments with a grin. “Why don’t you donate a couple words to her account, son?”

“I don’t think she’d spend them,” Richie hears himself say.

Your mom chuckles at the same time his secretly grimaces, but the former’s smile is a little tight around the edges. “Perhaps, perhaps not.…You know, Richie, she used to be quite the talker when we were in Massachusetts. The move was very hard on her, especially since Sofia was going away to college as well.”

“Oh.”

He didn’t know that. Richie looks down at his half-eaten slice of pie, feeling rather sorry for you again. Then he thinks of the vicious giggles in the back row of the math class he shares with you, and how the teacher gets frustrated with you because she can’t hear what you’re saying – the exact opposite of why he gets in trouble – and prickling guilt mixes with his pity. He hasn’t really tried to hang out or eat lunch with you at school. Sure, he’s talked to you a little in class, but no more than he does with any other classmate. And he’s run his mouth a bit during the few times he’s seen people picking on you – but of course, being that it’s him, it either didn’t help or resulted in him getting crammed into a locker. He’s not much of the heroic type outside of the arcade. 

Glancing back up, Richie sees your mom’s expression twist into one of concern.

“Where is [Y/n]? It’s been a while.”

“Perhaps she got lost down there.” Your father chuckles. Richie smiles.

Despite laughing along, your mom still puts her fork down. “I’m going to go and check on her. Excuse me for a moment –"

Richie opens his mouth just before she pushes her chair back.

“I can go get her, Mrs. [L/n].”

His offer is an effort to soothe the guilt in his stomach, and he hopes that it works soon. He glances over at his dad, who nods, and then at your parents, who suddenly look grateful.

“Would you, Richie? Thank you so much.”

He salutes and stands up, napkin falling from his lap. “No problem,” he says, bending down quickly to retrieve it. When he pops back up, he’s a British gentleman, throwing the rumpled napkin next to his half-eaten plate of pie. “It’ll take but a fortnight, ay-wot.”

As Richie travels into the kitchen, he hears your mom comment on what a nice young man he is.

The guilt is back again.

Your kitchen is practically immaculate. There’s a pot still left out on the stove, probably leftover soup, with a ladle on the counter next to it. The fridge has some family pictures on it. He pauses to look at them, eyes wandering from photo to photo – the beach, museums, even Harvard, tacked onto the door with plain blue magnets. You’re smiling in all of them.

The door to the cellar is just to the right. Why’d you close it? Richie tears his gaze away from the picture of you at some festival, taking another step to reach over and grab the doorknob.

He twists and pushes it; it’s stuck. A frown pulls at his lips. He turns it the other way and then back again, and this time, he manages to force the door open with a sharp and ominous _creak_.

The light’s off.

“… [Y/n]?” Your name rolls off his tongue uncertainly. He tries to ignore the chill that snakes down his spine when he’s met with silence. “You down there?”

Reaching in and feeling along the wall, he finds the switch and flips it. Nothing happens.

Maybe the lightbulb burned out? Yeah, that would explain it. He wishes he had a flashlight.

“[Y/n]? Helloooo?”

With a sinking feeling, Richie realizes that he has to go down there and fetch you. Because you _are_ there, somewhere, even though it’s almost pitch black and the door had been closed. He just knows.

“Fuck.”

Sweat beading on his brow, Richie gropes for the railing and lowers himself down onto the top step. He takes a breath and stops, wiping his free hand on his slacks. Why does he feel so antsy? He hasn’t been scared of the dark since he was eight. Can’t you just come up already?

The next step. The wood creaks beneath his feet.

Another. And another. And another.

He practices his Voices with each step as he goes deeper and deeper into the cellar, something to distract him from how the light from the kitchen is getting dimmer and dimmer. Cellars shouldn’t be _this_ deep into the ground. The smell of wine, thick and cloying, forces its way up his nostrils as he continues.

Richie reaches the bottom step, breath catching and stumbling in his chest like Bill’s stutter. He tears his gaze away from his feet and calls your name for the third time – but only half of it comes out before he chokes on the rest.

You’re there, all right. There’s a wine bottle clenched by the neck in one of your hands. And standing just a few feet away, its eyes glowing gold in the darkness, is the huge, unmistakable form of the Predator.

For once, Richie is speechless. His eyes bulge, his ears ring, his face feels numb. He stares up at the monster that’s only supposed to be in movies, hears its large rattling hisses and swamp water dripping to the floor in gooey _splats_. Its mandibles gleam red, clicking together like kitchen knives.

Then before Richie can blink, it roars and lunges at you.

You shriek, swinging at its head. Glass shatters and the creature’s head snaps to the side. In that split second, Richie shakes out of his stupor and leaps forward, snatching your wrist with bruising force.

“ _RUN!_ ” he screams, dragging you toward the stairs.

The Predator growls and he hears it lunge again. The sounds of cracking and splintering wood fill his ears – it’s running up the stairs after them, oh god! He doesn’t dare look back. You stumble after him, screaming as the two of you claw your way upward, up and still up towards the light. It grows brighter and brighter –

Richie flies from the top step with a lung-bursting gasp. Just behind him, you slam the cellar door shut. There’s a loud THUD behind it, like the _thing_ had thrown itself against the door, and then there’s nothing.

His legs give out from underneath him. You join him on the kitchen floor soon after.

Struggling to catch his breath, Richie squeezes his eyes shut. He can’t stop shaking. There’s a peculiar fuzziness in his head, like he’s underwater. Is he still alive? Is he dead? What the hell was _that_? Holy shit –

Slowly, he opens his eyes again and looks over at you. You’re silent as ever, stiff as a statue and staring at the door like it’s a god about to strike you dead. Your mouth quivers as if you’re trying to speak.

“[Y/n]?” Richie’s voice is hoarse, and small.

You begin to cry.

“Wh-Wh-What just ha-appened,” you whisper, tears and snot running down your face. “Wh-What the f-fuck …”

The exhausted panic on your face, for some reason, hits Richie with the thought that you could’ve _died_ , he could’ve _died_ , and he feels his chest tightening up. His head pounds.

“What’s going on?” A shadow falls over him, and Richie looks up to see his parents and yours staring down at the two of you. Your mom looks more worried than frightened. _Didn’t anyone hear us screaming?_ “Oh my god, honey, what happened to you?”

Richie looks down at your clothes and blanches. Dark wine, like blood, and tiny green flecks of glass spatter the orange sleeves of your cardigan. Your stockings are ripped at the shins where they had scraped against the stairs.

“I …” you mumble, wiping your nose, “I broke the wine bottle.”

You sound … almost ashamed. Your mom sighs.

“Honey. You know how expensive that was.”

Richie swallows. “I scared her!” he cuts in. He forces the tears stinging his eyes away when the adults turn to him. “I thought it’d be funny to jump at her and she dropped it. Sorry.”

“Mmhm …and then, um … then the lightbulb burned out.” You continue the story, glancing at him out of the corner of your eye. “And Richie got scared and dragged me up the st-stairs.”

He blinks. Somehow, he finds the pride to be embarrassed by your addition. “I didn’t _drag_ you. You were scared too. Screaming bloody murder and bejesus and everything.”

“No.”

“Yeah.”

“I’m not scared of the dark.” You sniff.

“That’s totally BS,” he says. He begins to smile. So do you. “You basically crapped your pants.”

(“Richie!” says his mom, appalled.)

Your voice is low. “Not before you pissed yours.”

(“[Y/n]!” says your mom.)

His grin is full now. A giggle suddenly sputters out, and he hears your chuckle melt into his as the two of you sit on the linoleum floor, laughing, falling into each other, as your parents wonder what the hell is wrong with you both.

That night, the ice finally melts.

—

“What do you mean you don’t have a bike?”

You seem to shrink in the bright sunlight, digging a toe into the grass and clearly embarrassed. Meanwhile, Richie squints at you in disbelief. Who knew there were kids that didn’t have a bike these days? It’s basically sacrilege.

“My mom says girls shouldn’t ride bikes,” you explain. Still, you gaze enviously at his mode of transportation.

He leans on the handlebars. “Why not? Tons of girls have ‘em.”

“I dunno.” You shrug, playing with the hem of your shorts. “Something about virginity, I think.”

What the fuck? Richie grins despite his confusion; he’s never heard of _that_ before. The thought is both gross and entertaining. “Who’d wanna fuck a bicycle?”

You wrinkle your nose, despite the snort that escapes. “Ew! No one. I dunno, Richie, I just don’t have one.”

“That sucks.” He sits up. “I guess we could ride double on mine until we meet everyone at Eddie’s. Bill has a package carrier on the back of his bike.” Both your parents and his are gone until eight on a double date day or some crap like that, so you don’t have to worry about getting caught any time soon.

“Okay,” you agree. Then you look uncertain. “Is it safe?”

“Yeah, I’ve done it tons of times.” A _bit_ of an exaggeration, but he really wants to get going. “But if something happens, at least you won’t die a virgin.”

You snicker, scandalized. His ego swells; one of the great things he’s learned about you these past few months is that your sense of humor matches his. Hallelujah! At least _somebody_ appreciates his talent.

He scoots forward off his seat and stands over the top tube. With some instruction, you swing a leg over and sit, settling your feet on the rear axles. As he starts off, your hands shoot up to grip his backpack.

“Can you move your legs back a little?”

“Oh. Yeah. Sorry.”

“S’fine.”

It’s a little hard to gain momentum, but after a while Richie and you are clipping quickly down the street. He gains speed steadily, grinning when you squeak and then laugh; wind combs through his hair, his Hawaiian shirt flapping behind him. Your fingers pull the straps of his backpack tightly over his shoulders. It’s really okay, though. He doesn’t mind that much.

Eddie only lives a few blocks away, so the two of you roll into his driveway soon enough. Bill’s already there, just about to put down his kickstand.

“H-Hey, Richie,” Bill says as Richie brakes, causing you to slam face-first into his back. “[Y-Y/n].”

Richie gets off and quickly turns to see you rubbing your forehead. “Whoops, you okay? Hey, Bill.”

“’M fine. Hi, Bill.” You wave at the other boy, who grants you a friendly smile. You’re still a little shy around his friends.

“She doesn’t have a bike. Think she can hitch a ride on yours, Big Bill?”

“Sure.”

“Thanks,” you say. Bill hums.

“Schweet.” Richie shucks off his backpack and unzips it. “Okay, time to stock up on reserves. Tally ho!”

The three of them crowd onto the porch to knock, and within seconds, Eddie runs up to the door to let everyone in. They quickly stock up – Milk Duds, marshmallows, Capri Suns, the essentials – and scurry back outside after Eds kisses his mom goodbye.

Well, it’s more like Eddie pushes them out the door. At least _you_ thought it was funny when he offered to kiss Mrs. K.

“So you don’t have a bike, [Y/n]?” Eddie asks, just as incredulous as Richie had been when he first learned about your predicament.

You shake your head.

“Her mom thinks that it’ll, like, take her virginity or something,” Richie tells him, picking up his bike. He glances over to see you waiting as Bill gets on Silver. “Fuckin’ crazy, right?”

Eddie makes a face that’s both appalled and intrigued. “What? No way.” He turns to you, and your grimace confirms it. “Wait, is that true?”

“I dunno. My mom thinks it is,” you reply awkwardly.

“That’s b-buh-bullshit.” After checking that you’re holding on well enough, Bill puts up his kickstand. “L-Lots of girls r-ruh-ride bikes.”

“That’s what I said!” Richie says, triumphant.

The corners of your lips turn up. “I’ll ask for one again, then.”

With that, the Losers take off toward Stan’s house to get him. Stan the Man still has some chores to finish by the time they stop by, so they have to wait a while, but he eventually comes out and they start their journey down to the sewers.

Richie follows close behind Bill’s giant clunker of a bike, where he can see you clutching onto Bill’s backpack as you had done with his. Pedaling a little harder to catch up, Richie shouts to get your attention. You turn your head to look at him, and he sees that you’re smiling wide.

“How fares the ride, my love? Better than mine?”

“By miles,” you answer, words almost blown away by the wind.

He blows a raspberry in return and shoots you the finger, falling back as your grin turns cheeky. Silver – despite being an old lady bike – is too fast to keep up with for long. “Lies!” Richie cries, standing up on his pedals. “Blasphemy! Get off this instant, young lady!”

He can hear you holler as they careen down a hill, the Barrens just up ahead. Bill’s bike goes farther and farther ahead. One of your hands lets go to wave in the air, and the sight, for reasons Richie can’t explain, makes his stomach churn with something unpleasant as he picks up speed.

“Hi-yo Silver awayyy!”

_Are you having more fun with Bill?_

—

Richie tries to squeeze some fun out of the trip to the sewers, even though the reason for going down there is not very fun at all, and Stan and Eddie fuss the entire time. Other than you, nobody is very amused by his efforts.

In any case, their search for Betty Ripsom and Georgie is cut short by the new kid, who washes up out of nowhere looking like a zombie movie threw up on him. He’s bleeding all over and mentions something about Bowers, so logically, they hoist him onto the back of Bill’s bike and peel the hell out of the Barrens.

Richie ends up riding double with you again. Thankfully, the trail slopes downward, but the rocks and roots make it a job and a half; his strength is for shit compared to Bill, which is why he’d suggested you ride on Silver for the long haul. His wrists ache awfully by the time they make it back into town, but he doesn’t say anything because you’d probably feel bad if he did.

Since the hospital’s too far away and the new kid isn’t _dying_ dying (and Eddie basically has twelve years of hospital training), they swipe some supplies from the drug store and Eddie patches him up. After escorting the poor guy – whose name turns out to be Ben – home, Stan says that he’s had enough excitement for the day and heads home himself. Eddie then mentions his need to shower as soon as possible and Bill also looks like his mind is elsewhere, so in the end all of them just agree to meet up again at the quarry tomorrow.

“What are you having for supper?” Richie asks as your houses come into view. By the time both of you had turned onto your street, he had gotten tired of biking and asked if you could get off so he could walk it the rest of the way. Now his bike rolls smoothly between you and him.

“Mac n’ cheese, probably.”

“Fuck, that sounds good. I was just gonna make a sandwich or something.” He kicks a stray rock in his path. Eating all by his lonesome would suck, so – “Wanna share? I got Cheetos and Twinkies.”

“Sure. It’s not really suppertime yet, though.”

They stop in front of your house, the nice gray one next to his. The spare key is in the potted plant by the door. But you don’t move toward it, and Richie hopes that what’s on your mind matches his.

“So …” he tries, feeling a little unsure of himself for some reason, “you wanna hang out ‘til then?”

Almost immediately, you nod. A smile slowly crawls onto your face and it puts a bubbly sensation in the pit of his stomach – not a bad feeling, not at all.

“Sure.”

Richie grins. Looking down at the bicycle between the two of you, a bright idea hits him, and he slaps the seat. “Well, git on, then, miss. Ah say, we’re gonna teach you how ta ride.”

You gaze at him as he slaps the seat again. “Really?” you say hopefully.

“I’m tellin’ the full truth, missy,” he drawls, the Southern Senator in full control. “Ah say, git on up that thare seat.”

He lets you take the handlebars. You seat yourself and put one foot on a pedal, the other planted firmly on the ground.

“Good, good, good.” He recalls how his dad had taught him, so he reaches over and grabs the handlebars. “Now put both feet on the pedals and I’ll push you.”

The faster you go, the easier it is to stay upright, right? So Richie rams his weight forward and gives a running start, pushing until he can’t keep up anymore. And then he lets go.

“Now keep pedaling, [Y/n]!” he yells after you as you screech, wobbling down the sidewalk. “Keep – oh shit –”

The front wheel of his bike turns right suddenly. It rams into the skinny little tree planted in the grass between the sidewalk and the road, and you go down like a rock.

“Shit –”

“And she’s down for the count!” He rushes over – you’ve only gone, like, ten feet by yourself before crashing – and offers a hand. You take it as he exclaims, slightly concerned, “Terreefic fall, ah say, you put up a good fight but he socked you a good one! Down for the count!”

You smack his arm. “Why’d you let go? I can’t balance yet!”

There’s a grin on your face despite telling him off. Unable to resist the set-up, Richie falls to his knees as you pick up the bike and get back on. “I’m _sorry_!” he shrieks, clasping his hands together. “Please forgive me, darling, I shan’t never ever –”

You start giggling as he swoons. “I forgive you, I forgive you! Geez! Now help me try again.”

—

It takes about an hour, but by the time that hour is over, you’re riding up and down the block. Richie feels pretty damn good about himself; once you get your own bike, you won’t have to cop a ride off Bill anymore.

“Wanna see what’s on TV?” you ask, squeezing a packet of Velveeta cheese into the pot. Richie nurses his glass of pink lemonade as you grab some Cheetos from the small handful you had deposited on the counter, tossing them into your mouth before grabbing the spoon to stir the mac n’ cheese.

He shrugs and slurps his drink. While you finish mixing up the good stuff, he gets up and grabs two bowls from the cupboard, setting them next to the stove. “Yeah, sure.” 

Gathering up the Twinkies and Cheeto bag in one arm and his lemonade in the other, he heads to the living room and dumps everything down on the coffee table. The remote’s on the couch; he grabs it and turns the TV on. News channel, baseball, nope, nope. He stops at Channel 13.

“Hey, you like _The Equalizer_?” he shouts, grabbing the chips and setting it down next to him.

“Yeah,” comes your answer from the kitchen.

 _Yes_. The more he learns about you, the more he wonders why he used to think you had nothing in common. Pleased, Richie wriggles around to get comfortable, turning the volume up. He snatches the Cheetos and places it next to him.

You join him a few minutes later, handing him a bowl of mac n’ cheese. You say something but he’s too caught up in the euphoria of fresh hot Velveeta to listen, digging up a huge scoop and stuffing it into his mouth without a second thought.

 _Pain_.

He drops the scalding pasta out of his mouth and back into the bowl. “Shit!” he exclaims – though with his tongue burnt to a fucking crisp, it’s more like “ _Thit!_ ”. Grabbing his lemonade, he dumps it down the hatch.

“Are you okay?” you ask him as he fusses, tapping his shoulder. Your own bowl of mac n’ cheese steams up from your lap. “Jesus, I literally just told you it was hot.”

“Just Richie is fine, toots,” he manages; your replying snort dulls the pain some more. Richie stirs his food around and takes another spoonful, blowing hard on it. After a good minute, he takes a tentative bite.

The two of you sit in silence for the last half of the episode, nibbling on your homemade supper and finishing the bag of Cheetos. He tosses you a Twinkie as the next episode starts.

“Richie?”

“Yeah?” he murmurs, thoroughly engrossed in the intro. He wishes his mom would let him get a drum set. Not that he’d be any good at it, but it’d be worth a shot.

“Thanks.”

You fiddle with the Twinkie’s wrapper, and Richie hums as he glances at you out of the corner of his eye. “You’re welcome?”

“No, like –” finally tearing the plastic jacket open, you take a bite – “thanks for today. I had fun. Well, besides saving Ben from bleeding out, I guess.”

“Oh.” Richie stops munching on his cake, surprised. “No biggie.”

Your eyes drift to the TV. Robert McCall emerges from his silhouette in all his badass glory.

“And … um, thank you for being my friend,” you admit, voice even softer than usual.

 _That_ gets his full attention.

With a start, Richie realizes that, oh, shit, you guys are finally, actually _friends_. Close friends, against all frickin’ odds. He’s been willingly hanging out with you for the past few months and you like him enough to call him your friend.

His face starts to feel tingly. Trying desperately to keep Cool, Richie falls back on what he knows best and grins smarmily. “Those are some sexy words, [Y/n]. Wanna tell me more in the bedroom?”

Unfortunately, his voice decides to jump a couple octaves. _Son of a bitch, sound_ normal _for once, Trashmouth_.

You’re dead set on staying on track, though. “No, I’m serious,” you insist. “I didn’t want any friends when I first came here. And my parents kinda forced me to hang out with you –” _yowza, compadre, the truth hurts–_ “but last Thanksgiving, I was actually planning to try to talk to you. Really.” You give him a small smile. “Even before whatever the fuck happened in the cellar.”

 _The cellar_. He hadn’t thought about _it_ for a few months now, having convinced himself that it was a nightmare of sorts. You hadn’t talked about it since that night, either – until now. “You remember that?” he asks hesitantly.

“I had nightmares for two weeks,” you confess, taking another bite out of your Twinkie. “It felt too real not to forget. Even if we just imagined it, somehow.”

“... Yeah.” He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. Not wanting to think about the Predator, he changes the subject and adds, “Sorry for basically ignoring you at school for the past three years. I’m glad we’re amigos now.”

“Same here. I was being a snob.” You look down, picking a crumb off your shirt. “And, um … for the record, I always thought you were funny.”

The fuzzy tingles come back full force.

“That’s all I’ve ever wanted from a woman,” he cries, grabbing your hands. His fingers are still sticky from the Twinkie. “You’re the love of me life! Marry me! I’ll buy us million-dollar diamond rings and we’ll honeymoon in the Bahamas –”

He babbles on, only half paying attention to what he’s saying. You collapse into a heap on the couch, busting a gut laughing as he splays out on top of you, all puckered up. “Sto-hop it,” you gasp, “I’m gonna throw up –”

Eventually, you get a kick in, and Richie loses his balance and falls onto the floor. His face hurts from grinning and his glasses are askew, making the world a blur before he rights it again. The TV’s already faded to white noise. He looks up at you.

He doesn’t know it yet, but he will remember this. Even when he grows up and his eyesight gets shittier and his jokes get raunchier and the memory of Derry grows fainter, he will go to bed in his penthouse suite and close his eyes and hear that laugh belonging to someone he can no longer name but will always love, deep in his heart that will never quite grow up. He will remember you – maybe not your face, but the feeling that you gave to nobody else but him, and it will bring an ache of longing for times past. It will keep him up at night.

But right now, he just looks up at you in awe, and he sees his best friend.

“Down for the count, Richie,” you say, holding out a hand.

He takes it.


End file.
